


Blood Stains on my Face

by HakeberHooligan



Series: Murder Husbands, a Romance [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Drugging, Even if it Means Straight-Up Murder, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Minor Sexy Times, Murder Husbands, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Supporting your Significant Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 02:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20788847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HakeberHooligan/pseuds/HakeberHooligan
Summary: The boy -“Call me Mischief”- is a drunken mess. Little Mischief’s not afraid to push boundaries, and he’s all over Brett. Sitting in his lap, giggling at his stupid jokes, and whispering filthy things to him in his ear.When Brett lets his hand slide underneath Mischief's shirt, he’s surprised when his hand is slapped aside.“No no noooo,” Mischief admonishes sloppily, wiggling a finger in his face. “None‘v that here. Be a gentlem’n an’ bring me back to your room.”Brett wonders if he’s peaked, become such an apex predator that he no longer needs to even work for his kill. But then Mischief is giggling again and kissing him feverishly, and all thoughts other than taking this boy back to his kill room are pushed from his mind.He’s going tolovetaking little Mischief apart.





	Blood Stains on my Face

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Here's a little post-Stains of the Soul snippet for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy! 💕

Brett loves twinks. When a grizzled man rouses from the sedatives to Brett fucking into them, they get angry and violent. They use rude language and kill the mood. Not most twinks though. No, they’ll beg and plead and whimper so prettily, not able to do much else with the sedative still coursing through their blood. 

_ “I won’t tell anyone,” _they’ll promise.

Brett will chuckle while he slowly fucks in and out of them, savoring the drag of his cock along their tight insides, and reply:_ “of course you won’t, sweet thing. Dead boys tell no tales.” _

Then they’ll cry, they’ll bargain, some will even try to appeal to him, right up until he peaks and slits their throat while he spills into them. If he nicks the interior jugular _ just _right, he’ll be covered in a spray of blood. He’s careful not to cut their voice box, because he loves the screams. Bloody gurgles are unattractive.

He’s on his second night at _ Higher Flights _nightclub in Denver. He has three more nights of hunting before he has to head back to Montana. Hunting on business trips takes some of the heat off of him. He’s actually on business in a town about an hour south, but he’s learned not to prowl where he sleeps. He didn’t hunt last business trip, and it’s been two months since he had his last twink.

Two months too long, if you ask him.

Tonight, he’s hit a home run. This pretty young kid was already wasted by the time he got to the nightclub, and he’d immediately attached himself to Brett like a barnacle. Brett’s a good looking man, and although it usually doesn’t take that much to convince his boys to leave with him, this one is all too plaint.

He almost feels a little cheated out of the hunt, with how easily the boy came to trust him. But then, he’s 100% Brett’s type and he’s never been one to pass up a free meal. Big doe eyes, pouty lips, and a slightly upturned nose paint the prettiest picture. So he flirts, enamours, and compliments. The boy - _ “Call me Mischief” _\- is a drunken mess. Little Mischief’s not afraid to push boundaries, and he’s all over Brett. Sitting in his lap, giggling at his stupid jokes, and whispering filthy things to him in his ear.

When Brett lets his hand slide underneath Mischief's shirt, he’s surprised when his hand is slapped aside.

“No no noooo,” Mischief admonishes sloppily, wiggling a finger in his face. “None‘v that here. Be a gentlem’n an’ bring me back to your room.”

Brett wonders if he’s peaked, become such an apex predator that he no longer needs to even work for his kill. But then Mischief is giggling again and kissing him feverishly, and all thoughts other than taking this boy back to his kill room are pushed from his mind.

He’s going to _ love _taking little Mischief apart.

“Take this, little love,” He says, pulling a pill out of his pocket. Mischief frowns at it, and looks at Brett with skepticism. He makes a show of rolling his eyes and pulling another pill, identical to the first, but this one made of sugar. He pops each one into a shot glass on the table, and they both dissolve quickly.

“Ecstasy,” he says into Mischief’s ear. “We’re going to have one hell of a party!”

He pulls back to see Mischief’s face light up, and he’s back to giggling. The moment is ruined when some asshole stumbles into them. Brett and Mischief both fall out of the chair, nearly missing the table with the shots in the process.

“What the _ fuck, _asshole?” Brett yells, leaving Mischief sprawled on the ground in favor of leaping up to crowd in the man’s face. In Brett’s younger predatory days, he’d forget Mischief completely for this one. Jet black hair, piercing eyes, and a leather jacket to round off the bad boy look. He looks like someone who would put up a fight, though.

In spite of that, Brett’s a little surprised when the man looks startled and slightly afraid. _ Good. _

“Sorry, man!” He says, holding his hands up. “My bad!”

Brett decides to let it go. He doesn’t need to get kicked out, not when he’s already got a pretty little twink in his grasp.

“Fuck off,” He snaps, turning around and to help Mischief. He’s still giggling, stumbling and piss drunk, grabbing onto the table for support. He goes to reach for Brett’s shot, and Brett playfully knocks his hand away, pushing the other one towards him.

“This one’s mine, sweet thing,” He coos, throwing his head back and downing the shot before Mischief can protest. The boy plays his role beautifully, taking the other shot and making a face after he drinks it.

Brett knows he has a short amount of time before little Mischief passes out, and another thirty after that before he comes to. He’s very particular with his dosage. He spent weeks practicing on himself as a baseline, and then used his first few victims to perfect it.

“Ready to go?” He asks, pulling Mischief in close and grinding their hips together. Mischief moans, nodding in a jerky movement, and Brett can feel his knees go weak. _ Perfect. _

It takes longer than he’d like, but eventually they’re out of the club and Brett is guiding him towards his car. But then Mischief tugs at his grip, pulling him towards a back alley.

“Lemme blow you first,” he slurs, stumbling over his own two feet. Brett growls in frustration and the façade drops slightly. This little fucking shit is going to pass out on the concrete, and he’s going to get caught if passerbys see him loading an unconcious body into his car.

But Mischief has let go of his hand and he’s already down the dark corridor, turning to look back at him with a gleam of - well, mischief in his eyes. Brett stalks towards him, ready to manhandle the boy a little if he needs to.

He gives his head a little shake on the way. The alcohol is hitting him harder than it should be. He only had two drinks, and he has a fairly high tolerance. His limbs feel a little heavy, and he’s feeling lightheaded.

When Brett reaches the twink, his entire demeanor changes. The easy, lopsided smile straightens and becomes shark-like. He shifts his feet, standing straight. His eyes sharpen. Brett’s breath hitches. Quite suddenly, the boy looks… _ dangerous. _

“Feeling okay there, Brett?” He asks in a low, steady voice. The light, slurred tone is gone.

Brett swallows thickly.

“Didn’t give you my name,” He says. He feels dizzy, and if he didn’t know better he’d say _ he _was the one who drank the sedative. But that can’t be right…

“You didn’t need to. I know who you are. I know _ what _you are.”

Brett isn’t prone to fear, but the chill that washes over him as his gut twists is unmistakable.

“Fuck off,” he spits, spinning around to walk away. He’s met by a solid wall of leather and muscle. He stumbles back and gets a look at the guy. It’s that asshole who knocked them over earlier.

“Where did you think you were going?” The man asks, and his eyes glow red. They _ fucking glow red _, and Brett knows he’s been slipped some sort of hallucinagetic, becuase then the man smiles and reveals a mouthful of sharp, pointed teeth.

“What the fuuuuuuck.” He turns back towards Mischief, tangling his feet in the process and going down hard.

_ “This _is the apex predator we’ve been tracking?” Mischief huffs in amusement, crouching down into Brett’s field of vision. “You’re kind of a mess, bro.”

What the fuck is this? What’s going on? Brett fights for lucidity, but it’s like grasping at sludge that keeps slipping through his fingers. He tries to talk, to _ threaten, _but all that comes in is a pathetic string of nonsense.

Mischief snorts derisively and stands, then delivers a kick straight to his temple.

He blacks out.

\- - -

When Brett’s mind slowly filters back into consciousness, the first thing he notices is a wet, slick noise and moaning. He stays still and keeps his eyes closed, lucid enough at least to know not to give himself away.

He catalogues his body. His head is pounding, which is a dual effect of the sedative and being kicked like a fucking soccerball. And he _ had _ definitely drank the sedative, knows what it feels like to wake up from it. He guesses he’s been out maybe fifteen to twenty minutes- the dose was meant for someone much smaller in stature than himself.

He moves as little as possible, can feel that his feet and hands are bound behind his back, effectively hogtied. He’s on a cold, hard surface, and guesses he’s on a concrete floor.

Brett cracks an eye open to confirm what he’s hearing. He sees the guy with the glowing eyes faced towards him, leaning with his back against a wall and watching himself fuck into his twink’s mouth. His hands are twisted in the boys hair, and it doesn’t look gentle. The boy moans obscenely, bobbing his head and choking on the cock.

“He’s awake,” the man pants, not bothering looking at Brett. “Told you we didn’t have enough time.”

The boy pulls off with a loud _ pop, _shaking off the man’s hands and turning to face Brett. He sees no reason to pretend that he isn’t lucid, and their eyes lock. Mischief’s lips are swollen, and he looks absolutely debauched. Even in his current state, Brett’s dick gives an interested twitch.

“He can wait,” Mischief says dismissively. “I haven’t quite washed the taste of him out of my mouth just yet.” He turns back to the man and swallows him down again. The man tangles his fingers in his hair and rocks into his mouth.

“What the fuck is this?” Brett slurs, weakly struggling against his bonds. The sedative is still coursing through his blood, and it leaves him feeling like he’s moving through molasses. The two men are back to their session, and Brett feels a flare of anger, stronger than any fear he’s feeling. He’s a _ serial killer, _a man to be cowered beneath. Not a thing to be cast aside and forgotten about.

“Hey!” He yells when half-assed struggling gets him nowhere. The man sighs and lets his head fall back against the wall.

“It’s not gonna happen, babe,” He says, letting his hands drop from the boy’s hair. “Not with him throwing a fuss.”

Mischief leans back on his heels and turns to glare at Brett while his companion tucks himself back into his pants. Brett glares right back.

“Are our going to tell me what the fuck is happening here?” Brett barks. He hasn’t done anything yet that would show his hand. As far as these two know, he’s nothing but a victim. He could play the part, but he knows from personal experience that begging gets you nowhere.

The twink stands up and walks towards him.

“Brett, Brett, Brett,” He tuts. Then he stops, cocks his head, and gives Brett a thoughtful look. “Is there a nickname for ‘Brett’? I like using nicknames for this part.”

“Look, I don’t know what sort of fucked up shit you and this asshat are into-”

The older man growls, literally _ growls, _ like an animal, and his eyes glow red again. Brett’s breath hitches, and he feels a cold stab of dread that he tries to ignore it. Because it isn’t _ real. _

“What the hell did you give me?!” He hates that his voice cracks at the end.

Mischief snorts.

“Whatever you tried to give me, bub.”

“That’s bullshit.” Brett spits. He knows he’s showing his hand, but it’s obvious that these two knew what he was up to. “There were no hallucinogens in there.”

Mischief laughs, and turns to the man.

“You year that, Der? He thinks he’s _ hallucinating.” _He laughs again, and it makes Brett’s hackles rise. He won’t be laughed at, not by a fucking twink who needs another man to do his dirty work.

He pulls at the ropes in frustration. The sedative is wearing off, and the added strength causes them cut into his wrists and ankles. Mischief walks closer and crouches in front of Brett, grabbing a handful of hair and wrenching his head back to look in his eyes.

“You’re not a good person, Brett. You drug young men. Rape them and kill them. What’s wrong, you got turned down by someone once? Have daddy issues? Got a small dick?”

Brett snarls at the blatant verbal attack.

“You wouldn’t be talking like that if I wasn’t tied up, you little fucker!” It’s painful, but he jerks his head free of the boy’s grasp. Mischief makes no move to grab him again, just stares from where he’s crouched over him, head cocked to the side as if he observing some sort of curiosity. It only enrages Brett further. “You have no _ idea _what I’m capable of.”

Mischief gives him a grin that shows too much teeth.

_ “You?” _He laughs and falls onto his butt, crossing his legs and leaning back on his arms. “We’ve eliminated the Minnesota Shrike. Hunted down the Bay Harbour Butcher. Not the guy they pinned it on, by the way. You could say he was a kindred spirit, so we sent him on his way. Dark passengers and all that jazz.” Mischief throws his head back and laughs, like it’s some sort of inside joke. Then he pins Brett with his stare and continues.

“The Zodiac killer? Took Derek a ridiculously short amount of time to sniff him out. Although, that was more of a mercy killing by then. Dude was like _eighty._ You don’t even have a prolific _name. _You’re a weekend kill. No one will remember you as anything more than sad, sorry little victim.”

What? No… there’s no way that these two men did all that. Killed those legacies.

“You’re bluffing,” Brett growls, pulling at the ropes again. If he could just slip out _ one hand… _

“Even if I was, it wouldn’t change the outcome for tonight. You have sins to pay for, Brett. Consider me the collector.”

Brett snaps. He screams, wild and angry, pouring all of his frustration into the sound. He thrashes and twists, and the ropes burrow painfully into his skin. He is _ not _ dying like this. Not by the hands of some fucking punk _ twink _ that would have been nothing more than a mediocre fuck.

“I fucking kill you!” He rages. “You and your fucking boyfriend! Anyone you’ve ever loved! You’re-”

His words are cut short when the boy sits up straight and whips his arm out, fast and steady, drawing a previously hidden blade across his throat. The pain is unimaginable. He watches his own blood spray across Mischief’s face, and the smile that adorns it is nothing short of haunting.

The cut is sure and concise. Straight across his throat, severing veins, tendons, and his windpipe. He gasps for breath that won’t come, and his heart rapidly beats. With each pulse, more blood spurts out.

“Goodbye, Brett,” Mischief says casually, standing and stalking back to the man, roughly shoving him against the wall. The man doesn’t fight it, allows himself to be manhandled.

With dimming vision, Brett watches the boy fall back to his knees and undo the man’s buckle. With his last delirious thought, he feels a pang of self-pity that _ he’s _not the one being taken apart by the boy.

His life doesn’t flash before his eyes, the pain doesn’t ebb away, and he doesn’t see a bright light. Darkness encompasses him, pulling him under like liquid tar.

\- - -

A few days later, the local paper runs a story on a traveling businessman who was found dumped in the alley behind the hotel he was staying at. Police suspect foul play, but have virtually no leads. According to coworkers, he was funny and kind. The sort of guy that would bring donuts in every Tuesday, and buy them rounds when they went out for drinks after work.

What his coworkers _ didn’t _ mention that there was always an air of aloofness to him. Although no one ever spoke of it, most everyone he knew felt inexplicably uncomfortable around him, even when he was being a perfect gentleman. It was just a gut feeling that people got from being around him, one that was quickly cast away because the man was always so nice.

It takes less than a year before he’s all but forgotten as anything other than another name in another unsolved crime.

**Author's Note:**

> For more shenanigans, here are my social medias! come say hi 😘
> 
> https://www.facebook.com/HakeberHooligan/  
https://hakeberhooligan.tumblr.com/


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